


A Witch's Gift

by starlightwalking



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Barricade Day, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Magic, Multi, Witch Musichetta, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 18:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14857646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: Before the barricades, Musichetta gave each of her boys a gift—a little thing, with a charm of protection placed upon it. After, each spelled trinket winds its way back to her.





	A Witch's Gift

**Author's Note:**

> happy barricade day, have some pain :)))  
> i apologize if any details are inconsistent with the brick, while i did reference it several times in the writing of this fic i haven't read it in full for awhile.

Joly's gift was the hardest for her to find. She'd put it off for days, even after she'd decided on everyone else's. How could she find something for someone she loved so much? How could she sum him up in a little trinket?

In the end, she couldn't. So when he rose on the day of the barricades, nose running and eyes bleary, she cast a quick charm of healing onto her handkerchief and shoved it into his hands.

"Be safe," she whispered, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

Joly grabbed her and pulled her close to him. "This is all I get?" he said. He sneezed, and the handkerchief jumped up to catch his mess. "I thought you lubbed me."

Musichetta laughed, trying to hide her fear for him. "Yes, and that is why you got anything at all." With a twitch of her fingers, the handkerchief wiped across his face, then folded itself into his pocket. "Now, if you are going to go and die, have it be gloriously. Do not leave me over a cold."

"Don't worry, I'll look out for him," Bossuet said. He spun Musichetta around and kissed her sweetly.

"That is what I'm afraid of," she said, but she kissed him back, not wanting to let either of them go.

"Let's go to the Gorinthe," Joly said.

"An excellent proposition!" Bossuet agreed.

"I thought you were planning a revolution for today," Musichetta said.

"Oh, if Enjolras needs us he can send for us," Bossuet assured her. "Come, Joly! Let us drink to your health! You certainly need it. The Corinthe it is!"

He made to lead Joly away, but Musichetta cried out, "Bossuet! Don't leave your jacket behind!"

"Don't gatch a gold like me," Joly said mournfully.

Musichetta helped Bossuet into his coat, and gave him one more kiss, tickling his bald head affectionately. "Now you are ready to save the nation," she said, masking her anxiety in jest.

Arm in arm, they wandered off. Musichetta sighed. At least they went with her blessing, meager though her magicks were. She was only a hedgewitch, a minor seer and petty enchantress.

Her charms would serve them well, she hoped. All she could see in the future was darkness and blood, but there was always the chance she was wrong.

She wished she had been.

Now, walking amid the broken glass and bloodstained tables of the Corinthe, her sorrow drowned all her foresight. They were dead, all of them. Every single young man she'd given a gift had perished. Was it her fault? Had she doomed them with her charms?

"Mademoiselle," a gruff voice said behind her. She turned to see a man no older than Joly had been, dressed in the uniform of the National Guard. "I am afraid you must leave this place. The police are coming to conduct a final investigation."

It took all her strength for Musichetta not to curse him then and there. In the end it was the weariness in his eyes that halted her witching fingers. He was only a lad, much like her lads had been...

"Of course," she murmured, her eyes cast downward at the floor. This place—it would do her no good to stay, not any longer. "I will be on my way."

The man grunted and stepped out of the building. Musichetta took a step forward, but stopped as something caught her eye, sparkling faintly with familiar magic. A white cloth, stained brown with dried blood. It seemed to be crying out to her—

Her breath caught. With a twitch of her forefinger, she called the handkerchief back to her. It fluttered through the air, its path slow and erratic, and it landed heavily in her palm.

"Mademoiselle!" the man called again.

Clutching the handkerchief Joly had lost in the battle, Musichetta marched out of the Corinthe. She never went back.

* * *

She began to see her gifts everywhere. She could recognize the glimmer of her own magic, sparkling at the edge of her vision.

None of Les Amis had survived. Each had perished at the barricades, despite her magicks. Musichetta knew it wasn't her fault, but she couldn't help but think she could have done something better. If she was more than just a hedgewitch—

But there was nothing she could do now.

Musichetta returned to the Cafe Musain a week after the barricades, to pay what Bossuet and Joly owed on their tabs. She wore no visible sign of her mourning save a black ribbon in her hair and a sorrowful glance in her eyes.

She was on her way out when she saw it. The glimmer—something she'd spelled was here.

She turned back, surveying the cafe. There. Slumped in the corner was a young man, playing with a red ribbon in his hands.

Musichetta's breath caught. She had given Enjolras that ribbon, to tie his beautiful hair back. It had been one of her later gifts; she'd confessed to him that she was giving each man a little protection spell.

"Thank you," Enjolras had said. "Such a gift shall be treasured by us all."

"Do not tell the others," Musichetta had urged. "I do not want them to place too much store by these trinkets. I am no powerful enchantress, and I cannot stave off death. But a little thing is better than naught."

Musichetta approached the man with the ribbon, her frame trembling. "Monsieur," she said, "where did you get that ribbon?"

The man looked up at her, anguish in his eyes. "I—I do not—"

"You were at the barricades," she realized. She held open her palm, calling the ribbon back to her. It slipped out of his fingers and into hers. She felt a spark as it touched her, the reeling pain of death in battle. This ribbon had tasted violence.

"Yes," he whispered, hanging his head low. "Please—do not tell the gendarmes."

"My boys were there," she murmured. "I would not betray you." She rubbed the ribbon with her thumb. "How did you come by this?"

"The leader in red," the man said, glancing about as if he were afraid of being overheard. "There were five of us. He—he and his, his deputies, they made us leave. They were all going to die. They all  _did_  die. I was willing to die, too—but they said we had to stay alive. For our families. My mother, she is aged, and I..."

"The ribbon, Monsieur," Musichetta said, losing her patience.

"He gave it to me, to protect me," the man said, wiping tears from his eyes. "He said it was—a good luck charm."

Anger welled up within Musichetta's heart. Of course Enjolras had given up the ribbon. He was selfless, suicidal.  _Stupid_. If he'd kept it—

She realized her fists were clenched. The man stared up at her in fear.

"Thank you," she said. "For the ribbon, and for your story."

"I—" The man reached out to take the ribbon from her, but his shoulders slumped when he realized Musichetta was not going to give it back.

"This is mine," she said. "My gift to him. And if he not given it up, he may still be here." She shook her head bitterly. "The fool!"

"I wish it had been him who survived," the man said in a shaky voice.

Musichetta turned away, her heart empty. "So do I."

* * *

Finding a gift for Grantaire was nearly as difficult as finding one for Joly. He was a constant companion of her boys, so much so that they joked he was the fourth member of their relationship. As such it was hard to find something perfect for him.

Musichetta charmed the cork of a wine bottle, as a joke, but she was frankly relieved when she misplaced it before she could give it to him. Such a cheap reduction of Grantaire's character did not do him justice.

"You don't have to give me anything," Grantaire said when she expressed her frustration to him.

"I am giving you all gifts!" she said. "You deserve one, too."

"I am not going to the barricades," he insisted.

Musichetta raised an eyebrow. "That, I know, is false."

Grantaire snorted, replying, "Why would I follow these idiots to their dooms?"

"You would follow Enjolras anywhere," she pointed out, "and I know that Joly and Bossuet would drag you along with them."

"Worry about me last," Grantaire said. "I am the least likely to perish."

"These gifts are only for you to remember what you fight for," she protested, but Grantaire could see through her lies. He knew she was spelling them.

In the end she gave him a raven's feather, something she had been intending to turn into a quill.

"It is as black as your mood," she teased.

"I shall keep it with me always," he promised.

Musichetta was not even sure he kept it with him through the rest of that day. He lost everything he set his hands on almost immediately, and had no special reason to keep her gift on him.

Despite his insistence, or perhaps because of it, the barricade built itself around Grantaire, trapping him there for the last few days of his life. She didn't know how or why he had perished, but she saw his body at the funerals. The feather was nowhere to be seen.

After her tragedy, Musichetta wished she could avoid the Cafe Musain altogether. But such a desire was impossible, as she worked at a different cafe only a few blocks away. It was directly on her path to work, and the patrons of the Musain were familiar enough with her that they would wave to her as she passed.

It was only two days after finding Enjolras' ribbon that she saw the glimmer of her magic outside the Musain. She stopped, leaning down to inspect the heap of trash waiting to be disposed of.

There it was: the black feather. Pinching her nose to block out the smell, Musichetta picked it out of the pile, smiling half-heartedly. With a surreptitious flick of her fingers, she cast a spell of cleaning upon it, restoring it to a lustrous gleam.

What had been the point of giving Grantaire a gift if he was simply going to misplace it the second he received it? Sighing, she placed the feather in her pocket. At least he knew there was someone who cared about him before he died, even if he'd forgotten about everything else that mattered.

* * *

Combeferre's glasses were the dirtiest pair of spectacles Musichetta had ever seen. Every meeting of Les Amis de l'ABC she would attend, she saw him absentmindedly clean them on the bottom of his shirt, but when he put them back on his face, he had only moved the smears around.

She would tease him when she served him refreshments: "Monsieur Combeferre, I am coming your way!"

"I can see you fine, Musichetta," he said.

"Through those dirty lenses? How?" She plucked them off his face after handing him a glass of wine, putting them on her own face. "Ah! I cannot tell if your vision is horrendous or if these are simply filthy."

"Both," he admitted. "I always misplace any cloth I pick up to clean them."

"I shall have to spell a cloth you cannot lose," she declared, and a week later she handed him one sparkling with her magic.

"A gracious present!" he exclaimed, wiping his lenses clean.

"It will serve you well," she said. "Bossuet told me your favorite color was yellow."

"It is," he said. "Thank you, Musichetta."

The cloth was charmed with more than just a homing spell. It carried her protection magic as well. She had thought that he, at least, would be unable to misplace this gift.

It was a shock to her when she saw the cloth again. It lay in the middle of the road, miles from the barricades. She would have passed it by had she not seen its glimmer.

She leaned down and picked up the square of cloth. It was no longer yellow, covered in muck, stained with blood—it had been through hell, and survived what Combeferre had not. Despite her efforts, not even a cleaning charm could restore it.

"How did you get here?" she asked it. Joly's handkerchief had been at the site of his death; Enjolras' ribbon had a reason for its travels; Grantaire's feather had never even left the Musain. All three now rested in her pockets at all times, a reminder of what she had lost.

Musichetta folded the cloth and set it beside its brothers. "How did you lose your master?" she whispered. "That was the one thing you were not supposed to do."

But the cloth was only a cloth. It could not answer her.

* * *

When she heard the story of Jehan Prouvaire's demise, Musichetta wept. The soft-hearted poet deserved better than execution. And no charm of hers could stop such a death, not when it was so purposeful.

She had braided a flower into his hair, the night before the battle. Prouvaire was perhaps kindest to her of all Joly and Bossuet's friends, always asking how she was and quoting the words of ancient poets to describe her beauty. He charmed her, and she gave him little charms in return.

The flower was not the first such trinket Prouvaire had received from her. She'd passed along an inkwell that would never run out, a book whose pages turned on its own when one's eyes reached the end of a page, a needle that could sew any tear. He was used to her gifts, and she to his oddities.

Musichetta did not go to every meeting of Les Amis de l'ABC. She would cater for them on occasion; entertain them with her song on the holidays; sometimes she just went along to be with her boys. But she was no revolutionary, and cared for not for the sake of France but for the sake of the young men themselves.

Joly and Bossuet had gone out for drinks with Grantaire the night before the barricades, and had stumbled into Prouvaire quite by accident. The poet was no stranger to the bottle, but he was a notorious lightweight. Joly and Bossuet had dragged him home with them that evening, dropping him at Musichetta's feet.

She had simply sighed and got to work.

Healing potions were tricky, but living with Joly meant brewing them often. She was quite familiar with a concoction to ease a hangover, and administered one to Prouvaire.

"Mm, thank you, Musi," he murmured as she handed him a steaming cup.

"You may not be so grateful after tasting it," she warned.

Prouvaire smiled, on eyelid half closed, the other open. "You are music to my ears, Mademoiselle! Nothing you give me could be foul."

He took a long sip from the cup. An odd expression overcame him, and and he leaned back dizzily. "It's...delicious," he lied faithfully.

Musichetta could not suppress a laugh; most other men cursed her cooking despite its magical effects. "You are too kind."

"Ah, but I feel better already!" he exclaimed. He drank it again, this time with less wincing. "The taste grows on me."

Musichetta sat down beside him on the floor, plucking a flower from a pot on Joly's windowsill. She murmured a spell, blowing it into the petals.

"Magic!" Prouvaire exclaimed in wonderment. "I wish I were so blessed."

"My mother's line carries the gift," Musichetta explained. "We have escaped witch-hunters of the past simply because our magicks are little, quiet things. We do not level mountains or send plagues; we only charm a bit here and a bit there."

"Fascinating," Prouvaire breathed. He held out a hand, and Musichetta gave him the flower. "What did you to it?"

"A protection spell," she said. "For those who need it."

He met her eyes gravely. "We will make it out of tomorrow alive, Musi. I promise."

"You cannot promise that," she said. "But I am grateful for your words." She took the flower back from him, scooting to sit behind him. "You can have this, Jehan. May I braid your hair?"

"Please," he agreed.

Musichetta ran her fingers through his long, dark tresses. They were curled loosely and had a kind of softness she envied; her own locks were tighter spun and looked better cropped close to her head or else wrapped in a scarf.

She set about her work and relaxed as the braids formed. She had little magic left to her for the night, and found pleasure in the simple work of her hands. She tucked the flower into his braid by his ear and leaned back, satisfied with her work.

Prouvaire had fallen asleep. Musichetta got up softly, kissing his brow, and left him to his slumbers.

Prouvaire left her home before the sun rose and before Musichetta could wish him goodbye and good luck. His flower was stolen from him before the end of the day, his life with it.

After finding the handkerchief, the ribbon, the feather, and the cloth, Musichetta kept her eyes open for her other gifts, but she did not expect to see the flower again. It would have wilted by now, or fallen to pieces in the battle. It had not been in Prouvaire's hair when he was buried, she knew that much.

It was a shock for her to see it pinned to the jacket of a National Guardsman.

She found him off-duty, eating at her place of work. As she served him she winked at him, showing off her curves when she turned around.

"You, wench," he said when she returned to pick up his dirty dishes. "I like that look on your face."

"What? This?" Musichetta batted her eyelashes with false innocence. "Catch me after my shift and I may give you a little more."

The soldier laughed, his moustache vibrating unpleasantly. Musichetta kept her eyes trained on the flower on his chest. It still bloomed in full; her magic must be keeping it alive.

An hour later, Musichetta met the soldier outside the cafe. "Thank you for waiting, handsome," she teased. She grabbed his arm and pressed herself close to him. A fire of rage burned inside her, but she kept up her appearance. She needed that flower.

"I am Jacques," he said, leering close to her. Hot breath washed over Musichetta's face, and she fought the urge to smack him.

"That's as pretty as flower you've got, Jacques," she said, walking her fingers up his jacket toward it.

He puffed out his chest. "I took it from the braid of a insurgent," he proclaimed with pride. "I executed the pussy myself!"

Musichetta's vision went white. The next thing she knew, she was grabbing the soldier by his shirt collar, her eyes shooting literal sparks.

"Wh—wh—" Jacques stammered.

Musichetta struggled to regain control of herself. She leaned close to him, placing a delicate kiss on his brow. "That is very  _brave_  of you, Captain," she murmured in his ear. "Why don't you tell me more—over some drinks?"

Jacques grabbed her by the ass and laughed. "You're a feisty whore!" he exclaimed. "I like that." He dragged her down the road to a tavern, and Musichetta breathed slowly and deliberately to calm herself. She needed to stay flirty.

Jacques drank and drank and drank. Musichetta only sipped a glass of wine, surreptitiously spelling his cup to make the alcohol more potent. At last, Jacques fell face forward on the table, out cold.

Not wasting any time, Musichetta rose. She swiped the flower from his jacket and plucked a few hairs from his moustache, then left the establishment without paying.

She went home and placed the flower in a vase. It was no longer prudent to carry her reclaimed gifts around with her, so she arranged them carefully around it. Then she took the hair and began to spin a dreadful curse on Jacques, murderer of Jehan Prouvaire.

"This is for you, Jehan," she murmured through her tears.

* * *

Feuilly was one of the smartest of Les Amis, even if he was not the most educated. Combeferre's head was full of ideals; Prouvaire waxed poetic on every subject; Grantaire had dabbled in a little bit of everything and thought himself an expert in all of it. But Feuilly had common sense, a trait that always impressed Musichetta.

He noticed her giving away little trinkets—one to Enjolras, one to Courfeyrac, one to Bossuet—and came to her with an idea.

"Musichetta," he said, offering her one of his hand-made fans. "A gift for you, a fine woman."

She took it from him, snapping it open and fanning herself with it. "Why, thank you, Monsieur Feuilly!"

Out of his jacket he dug another fan, this one a little worse for wear. "And—" He smiled sheepishly. "Well, I have a favor to ask."

Musichetta raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Would you enchant this for me?" he asked. "I saw you've been passing out gifts, and I thought—"

Musichetta took it from him and smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "You've been spying on me!" she exclaimed. "Yes, of course I will spell this for you. What do you want?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "Surprise me."

Musichetta frowned in concentration, then waved her hand over the fan. Magic didn't always glimmer to the average person's eye, but with Feuilly watching, she let a few sparks dance around the fan.

"There," she said, handing it back. "You'll have good luck whenever you carry this."

"You ought to give Bossuet something like that," Feuilly said, looking over his fan reverently.

"I've tried." She sighed. "I think it only made his luck worse—magic can be finicky when met with divine forces."

"Divine?" Feuilly laughed. "That's the first I've heard of that!"

"I can see it," she said. "He's got the hand of some god over him. You all do."

"And what else do you see?"

Musichetta didn't meet his eyes. "There is a reason I am giving you all a magic thing."

Feuilly only chuckled at her warning. When he didn't come home from the barricades, Musichetta hung the fan he gave her on her wall.

Unlike most of her gifts, the magicked fan found her. Two little boys knocked on her door one afternoon, one a few years older than the other, offering the fan to her.

Musichetta gasped, snatching it from the older boy's hands. "How did you get this?" she demanded.

He bit his lip. Behind him, the other boy stuck his thumb in his mouth and stared up at her fearfully.

"A nice man gave it to me," the older boy said. "There was marching, and we had been left alone, and we—Perron was scared. Then the man stopped marching, and gave it to him."

Musichetta bowed her head, a tear falling from her eye. Of course Feuilly had given it away. These boys represented The People, and he would do anything for The People.

"He said it would give us good luck," the boy said.

"I gave it to him because of that," Musichetta whispered. "And...he died anyway."

"I'm sorry." The boy sniffled, squeezing his brother's hand.

"How did you come to me?" Musichetta asked, looking at him curiously.

"There was a light," the boy said. "Perron couldn't see it, but I could whenever I touched the fan. It—danced and danced, and it led me here."

"What is your name?" she asked, kneeling down to be at his height.

"Henri," the boy said. "This is my brother, Perron."

"You said you were left alone?" Musichetta said.

"We had a friend," Henri said. "But he left with the marching, and he did not return."

Another life lost. Musichetta blinked away her tears, cursing her foolish heart for what she was about to do.

"Henri, I am a witch. I charmed this fan," she said. "If you could see the charm, if it led you back here...you may be a witch, too."

Henri's eyes widened. "But..."

"Come in," she said, opening her door to them. "I will feed and house you, for a little while. And I will see what magicks you possess."

* * *

Bahorel was not an especially religious man, but he had a taste for irony. When Musichetta presented him with her grandfather's ring, a gold band emblazoned with a cross, Bahorel laughed.

"And what might this be?" he asked, tossing it into the air and catching it as it fell. "I have plenty of rings, Chetta darling, and little worship left in me."

"Watch who you 'darling'," cried a passing Joly, "she has two men already!"

"And I've a laughing woman!" Bahorel smacked Joly's bottom as he passed, sending the merrymaking Amis into a round of wild guffaws.

"My dearest Chetta, I love you to Galilee and back, and you know this," Bahorel jested, "but you must explain this devilish gift."

"It is not only devilish in your hands," she said. "My father's father was devoted to the Lord, and my mother stole this from him the night she left my father's home. It is full of dreadful sin, and not free of blood. See here?" She pointed to a stained indent near the top of the cross, never quite restored.

"Then I shall wear it proudly, and stuff it down the throat of a pompous priest!" Bahorel exclaimed.

"Only if they fight against the cause," Enjolras reprimanded from the other sign of the room.

"I ought to learn to keep my voice down," Bahorel exclaimed.

"Bruise a bourgeois with the cross of Christ," Musichetta suggested.

"I'd rather break his jaw," Bahorel said.

But it was Bahorel who had been broken, first to fall at the barricades. Musichetta had assumed the ring stolen, or else lost to the muck of the sewers; she had little hope of seeing it again. Still, after so many of her gifts returning to her, she was ever watchful.

With two little boys to care for, Musichetta had less time to spend wandering Paris looking for her gifts. She had never thought herself the motherly type, and she was grateful that Henri and Perron seemed to look out for themselves for the most part. They were cautious and closed off from her, but she did not much mind.

Henri's power was significantly greater than Musichetta's own. She was astonished when he confessed that he was unfamiliar with any other mages like themselves. Perron was ungifted, but since neither of them could remember their family, it was impossible to know if the talent was passed to him through blood.

Musichetta taught him what she knew: little charms and subtle spells, household magicks and petty curses. But Henri's magic outsripped her talent, and though he mastered the control of his power quickly, the effects of such spells were greater when they came from his hands.

Perhaps, if Musichetta's witchery were greater, her boys would still live... But from what she could tell, many of Les Amis had elected to pass their luck along. They could not be saved from their own altruism.

She went to the market one morning to purchase fish for that night's supper. Living with Bossuet and Joly, and then on her own, it had been easy to eat at cafes every night, but little boys needed better food. Henri and Perron were far from picky, and grateful for anything she gave them, but she knew that Perron had a preference for fish.

Musichetta bought two small fish for seven francs, one for herself and the other for Henri and Perron. She took them home and began to prepare them, but Henri placed his hand on hers before she could slice them open.

"There is something in this one's belly," he said. "I can see it. It glows."

"Glows?" Musichetta stared at the fish, seeing nothing.

"Yes," Henri said.

Slowly, Musichetta cut open it's belly. Its guts spilled onto her counter, but Henri was right—something glimmered inside it, both with magic and simply with reflected light.

She picked up the little thing, her fingers shaking. It was a ring. She wiped the fish mess off it, already knowing what she would see.

A cross. This was Bahorel's ring.

"Just like the Bible story," Henri remarked. "Magnon told it to us, once. Peter found a coin in the fish's belly."

Musichetta nodded. "I do not know if it is Christ that gave this back to me," she murmured, "but I am thankful to the god who did."

* * *

To Courfeyrac she had given a pin. It was a handmade thing, a small wooden circle with an ink stain upon it, simply reading "VIVE LA FRANCE".

"Be careful when and where you wear this," she warned as she handed it to him. "The gendarmes may not take so radical a statement kindly."

"Alas that freedom is a radical thought!" Courfeyrac exclaimed. "Thank you, Musichetta. Did you make this yourself? This calligraphy is exquisite!"

"Magic helps." She smirked, wiggling her fingers ominously.

"It always does," Courfeyrac agreed. "Are you certain you do not wish to join us as the barricades? Your charms are sure to be helpful."

"No," she declined. "My magicks are only good for little things such as this. But wear your pin there, for me, and perhaps it will help you."

By the time Courfeyrac's pin wound back up in her possession, Musichetta did not delude herself into thinking she could have prevented the deaths of Les Amis de l'ABC. She knew that only a god of fate would lead them each away from her protection and mockingly throw each trinket back into her face.

But such a god must have given her Henri and Perron, and had inspired her magicks in the first place. Musichetta had never before devoted her worship to a god, but now she was tempted to believe.

Henri's magic was a true gift to her. Walking through the market one day with the boys, he tugged on her arm.

"Mamselle," he said. "That lady is sparkling."

"Henri, I have told you, you may call me Musichetta," she said. "What was that?"

"Over there," Henri said. "Look. The lady in the blue bonnet. Doesn't she glow?"

Musichetta scanned the crowd, at last finding the woman he spoke of. "No," she said. "At least, not to my eyes. Perhaps your gift..."

"You should talk to her, Musi," Perron piped up. "The hand of fate is on her."

Musichetta turned to look at him in wonder. "The hand of fate?" she said. "What do you mean?"

"Talk to her!" Perron insisted.

"Take my hands," she said, and each boy grabbed onto her. They strode through the crowd toward the woman in the blue bonnet.

As they walked, Musichetta's mind raced: What did Perron mean? How could he know? Was he blessed with foresight, as Henri was gifted with power? Musichetta herself had a bit of both, but she had discovered Henri could not see into the future despite his spells.

"Mademoiselle!" Musichetta exclaimed. "Mademoiselle, spare a moment of your time?"

The woman turned. "It is Madame, actually," she said, shyly flashing her wedding ring.

"Apologies," Musichetta said. She glanced at Henri and Perron, wondering what they thought she ought to say. They only stared back, so she started simply: an introduction.

"I am Musichetta," she said.

The woman gasped. "Musichetta?" she said. "But—I know of you!"

"You do?" Musichetta raised an eyebrow.

"I am sorry—my name is Cosette Pontmercy," she said. "My husband is—"

"Marius Pontmercy?" Musichetta's eyes widened. "Oh!"

"Yes," Cosette said. "He was at the barricades with—with Joly, and Bossuet, and the rest."

Musichetta only nodded, unsure of what to say.

"Fate has brought us together," Cosette said. She smiled wide. "You must come visit us sometime! And—who are these delightful young men? I did not know you had sons!"

"They are...my wards," Musichetta said. "This is Henri, and his brother Perron."

"Bring them along too," Cosette said. "Here—" She fished around in her handbag, pulling out a business card bearing her address and the name of her husband. "Stop by anytime."

Musichetta took the card and bade farewell to Madame Pontmercy. As she led her boys back home, she was overwhelmed by the things set in motion.

"I have not seen Marius since long before the barricades," she told Henri when he inquired how she knew Cosette's husband. "I thought he must have died there, as well, if he had even gone to them. Now I know he went, and survived." She laughed bitterly. "How ironic! I did not give  _him_  a charmed gift."

"Musi, can we go see Cosette tomorrow?" Perron asked. "I think she'd like it very much. And, and she has something of yours."

Musichetta's breath caught. "Perron, do you often make such predictions?"

"He always knows when it's going to rain," Henri said. "And he knew that our friend would not come back after he left us."

"Perron, you are blessed with sight," she said. "I thought you were ungifted, but you have your own magicks." She sniffed. "Tomorrow we will go visit Mamselle Pontmercy. Thank you, dears."

Perron hugged her. "You're welcome, Musi."

Henri, though older and a touch more dignified, hugged her as well. "Thanks for everything, Musi."

The next morning, Musichetta took her boys down to the Pontmercy home. Their house was splendid, far more beautiful and stately than her own humble abode.

Cosette rushed out to greet them, showing them into her visiting room. She chattered up a storm, delighting Henri and Peron and amusing Musichetta.

"I am afraid Marius is out of the house this morning," Cosette said. "But even so, I have so much to discuss with you!"

They sat and talked for awhile. Perron played with some blocks, while Henri's attention flitted between the toys and the adults' conversation.

"Ask her about the pin," Perron whispered to her after an hour or so.

"What?" Cosette asked.

"Th-the pin," Musichetta said. "I've been...well, before the barricades I gave each of Les Amis a gift. And, seeing as Marius and Courfeyrac were so close, I was wondering whether you knew what happened to his pin. It was a simple thing, just a button that read 'Vive la France'..."

Cosette furrowed her brows. "They sent Courfeyrac's things to his father, but Monsieur de Courfeyrac sent them back to Marius. I can check the box, if it would bring you peace."

"I would greatly appreciate that," Musichetta said.

Cosette left the room for several minutes. Perron crawled up into Musichetta's lap, giving her a hug. "Don't cry," he said solemnly.

"I am not crying," she said, pinching his cheek.

"You will," he said. "But don't be too sad."

At last, Cosette returned with a small box in her hands. "This is all of Courfeyrac's things," she said. "Marius has some of his larger belongings stored in a room upstairs, from his apartment, but this is what was sent back from his father."

Musichetta took the box with trembling hands. She opened it slowly, her breath catching as she recognized the glimmer of her magic hidden beneath a blood-sprayed cravat.

Henri reached over and picked up the fabric gingerly. "There," he said.

The pin had been broken in two, straight down the middle. Its power had died with Courfeyrac; the vestiges of her charm barely sparkled in her vision. Musichetta picked up its two halves, staring at it with tears in her eyes.

"Can I keep this?" she asked Cosette. "You can have the rest. It's just, I—"

"Of course," Cosette said. She knelt at Musichetta's side, closing her hands over the fragments of the pin. "I can see how much it means to you."

Cosette invited the three of them to stay for tea, but Musichetta declined the offer. She was in too fragile a state to make small talk over sweets.

As she led the boys back to the door, Cosette said, "I do hope you will come back to visit again! Marius would love to see you again, I am sure."

Musichetta didn't know about that; he'd always seemed a little afraid of her in the past. But she smiled and nodded. Cosette was a darling, and she would benefit from her friendship.

"Oh!" Cosette exclaimed. "There he comes!"

Marius strode up the walkway. When he saw his wife, he beamed and rushed toward her, just as overeager and dramatic as always. Then he turned to see Musichetta and gasped.

"It is—Musique?" he said. "Joly's mistress?"

"And Bossuet's," she added. "Monsieur Pontmercy, it is...good to see you again."

Cosette grabbed her husband's arm and whispered in his ear, doubtless telling him why she was here. Marius blinked.

"Gifts, you say?" Marius' hand slipped into his pocket, then slowly brought out something Musichetta had never expected to see again. "Like...this one?"

Musichetta covered her mouth with a delicate hand. "My god..." For only deity would lead this back to her.

It was the cork of a wine bottle, glowing thick with her magic. The cork she had intended to give to Grantaire, before she lost it.

"You took it?" she whispered.

"I saw it lying about in the Musain, and I thought..." Marius bit his lip. "I am sorry if you meant to give it away to someone else. But, it was the only thing I kept on me throughout the barricades. Would you like it back?"

Musichetta turned away, not wanting him to see the fury on her face. "No. Keep it. It brought you luck and life, and I—" Her voice broke. "I do not begrudge you that. Farewell."

She did not speak to Henri or Perron all the way home. When she returned to her room, she slammed the door and began to sob.

Gods and magicks! She swore through her weeping. Fate was a cruel mistress, whatever god that touched her an ironic bastard. How was it that Marius, the one she had not given anything to, was the one who kept her magic with him the whole time? And he had  _survived_! If the others had kept their gifts—

But a witch's gift was not a blessing. Musichetta had learned that the hard way. A witch's magic was only of use when twisted and lost.

"I tried," she cried. "Why am I punished so?"

But whatever god that looked over her, if indeed there was one, gave her no answer.

* * *

She gave Bossuet a gift first of all. He was the one who needed it most, the one cursed with bad luck. If anyone was bound to perish at the barricades, Musichetta knew it would be him.

Her first gift was less practiced, less precise—it was not one of luck, but purely of protection. She wrote him a note, a letter sealed in cheap red wax, and promised him not to open it unless he was on his deathbed.

"Swear to me," she said fiercely.

"Of course, Chetta," he said. He took the note in one hand and drew her close with the other. "But there will be no need! I shall come back to you in one piece, I promise." He kissed her passionately, making her weak in the knees. Before they could surrender themselves to bliss, he drew back, murmuring, "Well—perhaps not  _one_  piece. But I will return."

Musichetta did not find the note. It was not on his body when he was buried, not loose in Paris with her glimmer upon it, not buried in the ruins of the barricades.

She reclaimed the other eight gifts in the space of a few months. After two years, Bossuet's was nowhere to be found.

She gave up hope after long. Henri and Perron, growing into healthy young adolescents, kept their eyes out for her, but Henri's gift and Perron's foresight reaped no rewards.

"I don't know," Perron said. "Perhaps the god doesn't want you to find the last one."

"If there is a god," Henri pointed out. "Magic can connect things and draw them back. Deity need not be involved."

Musichetta waved a hand. "Theology aside...maybe Perron is right. I ought to give up looking. It doesn't want to be found."

"No!" both her boys said at once.

"Please, Musi," Henri said. "At least try. We know how much this means to you."

That night, Musichetta prayed, something she'd never done before. Her mother was no Christian; her father's beliefs had been sundered from her the moment her mother left him and his family. Witchery took away whatever faith she could have possessed. Miracles were the sort of thing she did every day, and Christians had no fondness for even the meagerest of hedgewitches.

"To whomever is guiding my steps," she murmured, "please answer me...where is the note I gave Bossuet? Why is it hidden from me?"

No answer came. She had not expected one, truly, but deep down her last bit of hope flickered and died.

She dreamt a happy dream in her sleep, one where her boys were back with her and they were all content. Les Amis lived, the petty disagreements between them resolved and France liberated.

She woke as the sun rose, her heart's lightness immediately weighed down as she realized Bossuet and Joly were not beside her. But something stirred beneath her sheets: Perron. He had come to snuggle sometime in the night.

There was a creak at her door. Musichetta looked over to see Henri.

"I felt I needed to come here," he whispered.

Musichetta opened her arms, and he crawled into bed with her. As she stroked his hair and watched his brother's sleeping form rise and fall in contented breath, she was surprised at her happiness.

She'd never wanted to be a mother. She still didn't. But somehow these boys had wormed their way into her heart. She thought of them as "her boys", a term of affection she had once applied only to Joly and Bossuet. And—well, maybe that was alright.

She had almost fallen back to sleep when she felt Henri turn over, the fabric of his clothes scratching at her arm. He wore an old, oversized jacket that had at one point belonged to Bossuet. In fact, she thought he'd been wearing it when she gave him the—

"Henri," she murmured, "can you look in your pockets for me?"

Sleepily, Henri reached into the pocket of the jacket. Feeling something, he sat up with a start, and pulled out a folded piece of paper with cracked and crumbled wax sealing it shut. It glowed with a blinding yellow in her vision, and she squinted, but Henri didn't seem to see the shine.

Musichetta didn't breathe. Henri dropped the note into her pocket, and she saw her own handwriting scrawled across the front. It read simply,  _Bossuet_.

It was unopened. Unread. Unseen by his eyes. He hadn't even taken it with him to the barricades—true to his unlucky nature, he had left it behind.

"We found it," she whispered. "Henri, we—we found the last gift."

"The god was looking out for you after all," Henri said, his eyes wide.

"No," Musichetta said, and she knew it all at once. "It wasn't a god at all. It was them, all of them. They brought me to their gifts."

"And...their deaths?"

Musichetta closed her eyes. "Chance, or fate. Not everything is holy."

"He didn't read it," Henri said, touching the note. "Will you open it?"

"I already know what it says," Musichetta said. She blinked away tears. Somehow, she'd thought she would be more sad than she was now, but all she felt was...relief. Completion. Closure.

"If his spirit is here, perhaps he could read it now," Henri suggested.

Musichetta shook her head. "He knows what it said, anyway. It was nothing I kept secret between us, only that I loved him and Joly did too and that he made me happier than I'd ever been in my life."

"Are you awfully sad now?" Henri asked.

She began to say, "Yes," but something within her paused. Was she, truly? She had lost so much, but she had found much as well.

"No," she realized at long last. "Not with my boys."

Henri embraced her. He said nothing more, and Musichetta was grateful for his love. There was nothing to say, after all. Not anything she hadn't already said.

* * *

_Dearest Bossuet,_

_This note contains nothing you do not already know. If you are reading this, then it may be my last words to you, but what is last? What is first? Time is all one, in the end, and with my charms who knows what any of our fates shall be._

_I love you, my unluckiest of lovers. Joly loves you. The whole world ought to love you and it is a travesty that it does not. You are a light and a life to me._

_If you are in truth on death's door, then I send you to the afterlife with my love and my blessing. You and darling Joly have been the sweetest gifts that a little witch like me could have asked for._

_Much love and sorrow,  
_ _Chetta_

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was a real labor of love, and i'm pretty proud of it! please consider leaving a comment :)  
> check me out on tumblr as [@tommorrowcomes](http://tommorrowcomes.tumblr.com/) or on my main, [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/)!


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